The Pharaoh's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  She placed both hands in her lap, sat straighter, and breathed evenly. Anippe carved her features into stone. “Forgive me. It won’t happen again.” She raised her chin and blinked back tears.

  The guards nudged Puah and Shiphrah to their knees, and Tut began his inquisition. “My Nubians have questioned the Ramessid guards on both the Qantir and Avaris estates and discovered it was the guards who cast over one hundred male babies into the Nile during the past year.” His eyes narrowed as he studied the two midwives. “Was my command unclear? Why did you let the boys live?”

  Shiphrah raised her head. “Hebrew women are not like Egyptian women; they are vigorous and give birth before the midwives arrive.”

  Tut’s brow knit together. He signaled the guard nearest Shiphrah, who landed the shaft of his spear against her head. The midwife tumbled forward, but the guard planted her back on her knees so the king could question her further. “Are you saying Egyptian women are inferior?”

  “No, my king.” She blinked her eyes oddly—tightly closed and then opened wide. Had the blow addled her? “I’m simply stating a fact. Puah birthed a child on the day your sister labored.” Shiphrah nodded at Anippe. “Judge for yourself. A slave’s body must heal more quickly or die. So it is with our laboring women.”

  Anippe wanted to stand and applaud, but she remained stone still as King Tut considered Shiphrah’s well-phrased remarks.

  After a span of several heartbeats, the king peered behind the Medjay guards. “And who is the linen-clad ruffian, whose face appears to have met my Medjay’s fists or cudgel?”

  The Nubian on Puah’s right bowed slightly. “This is the husband of one of the midwives. He, uh, interfered with my search.”

  Abbi Horem chuckled, and a slow grin curved Tut’s lips. He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Must I remind you to control your emotions, General?”

  “Forgive me, my king. No, I, uh …” His humor faded when the king’s smile dimmed.

  Tut leaned on his armrest and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He seemed as tired of this mess as the rest of them.

  They waited—everyone—while Anippe’s sixteen-year-old brother decided the fate of hundreds of Hebrews—present and future. Ankhe was right. Tut was no god, but he was the king.

  “I will amend my decree. Not just the midwives, but any of my people who witness a male Hebrew’s birth must throw the baby immediately into the Nile. However, every newborn girl shall live.”

  Puah and Shiphrah bowed their heads, shoulders shaking in silent sobs. Mered dropped to his knees, cradling both women. The Medjays made no effort to stop him.

  Anippe spoke evenly, not loud enough to proclaim, but not quiet enough to be hidden. “Do I understand correctly that the mighty ruler of Two Lands has added further wisdom to his command by applying this edict to only Hebrew baby boys immediately after their birth? If anyone witnesses the birth of a Hebrew boy, they are at that moment to cast the child into the arms of our Nile god, Hapi?”

  Tut stared straight ahead, gaze fixed and empty. “Only feed the Nile god, Hapi, a freshly born Hebrew boy. That is my command.”

  Puah and Shiphrah looked up, faces tear-streaked but eyes hopeful. Wisely, they remained silent. Anippe scanned the room, not letting her gaze linger on her Hebrew friends, but feeling a joy and hope that she hadn’t felt in almost a year.

  “Queen Senpa and I leave in the morning.” Tut’s voice echoed in the small space. “My wife cannot sleep or eat because of her sadness, and I …” He leaned toward Anippe, grabbing her wrist and whispering for only her ears. “And I will not enforce a law I know is wrong but cannot change—because I am the god who decreed it. My mind is clearer without Ay’s prattling, but I cannot appear weak by changing laws I made when my pain shouted louder than reason.”

  Anippe placed her hand over her brother’s and kept her voice as quiet as his. “Your decree stipulates newborns. You have done well, wise and mighty ruler of our Two Lands.” She held her breath—and his gaze.

  He cupped her cheeks, the hint of a smile on his lips before he kissed her forehead. “You are tenacious, my sister. Our ummi Kiya would be proud.” Resuming his stately air, he addressed the guards. “Release the midwives.”

  Anippe didn’t dare glance at Abbi Horem, but surely he was pleased. Tut had maintained his authority, but Hebrew infants were safer now. Vigilant Ramessids might still barge in on a Hebrew birth and snatch a newborn son from his mother’s arms, but at least the chances of Avaris living peacefully would improve.

  Senpa leaned forward to peek around her husband. “We’re going to Gurob when we leave here, Anippe. Come with us. Tut and Horemheb will be hunting, and Amenia would love to see you”—her smile quivered a bit—“and her grandson.”

  Anippe ached to see Ummi, but how could she take Jered and Puah, when Moses was her real son? She might fool Tut, Abbi, and Senpa with an alternate baby today, but Ummi Amenia would inspect him from head to toe. She’d know if Anippe switched children.

  “I wish I could, but I’m still quite weak from the birth.” Trying to appease Senpa’s apparent disappointment, she said, “The midwife was right. We Egyptian women are weak as lambs when it comes to childbearing.”

  Lighthearted banter eased the tension that had bound the royal guests since they arrived. Anippe laughed with them but felt like an observer, an outsider. It was good to be with family, but she realized that at some point Avaris had become her home. While listening and nodding, she cast a discreet glance at her surroundings and released a contented sigh. This was where she would raise her son and wait for Sebak’s return.

  “Anippe, my treasure.” Abbi knelt before her, his touch on her cheek an awakening. “Are you dreaming of your husband?”

  Heat filled her face, and she ducked her head. “How did you know?”

  “Because I see that look on Amenia’s face each time I come home from battle.” He tipped her chin up. “So you’re pleased with the husband I chose for you?”

  She wrapped her arms around his wide neck. “He’s wonderful Abbi, and I miss him terribly.” Sitting back on her chair, she hesitated. “Can you tell me where he is or when he’ll return home?”

  “No, daughter. I can tell you only that he and his uncle Pirameses are the bravest men in my army. They are the best men I know.”

  “And you are the best man I know.” She hugged him again and was struck by a thought. “Abbi.”

  His face clouded. “What? Are you in pain?”

  “No.” She cupped his cheek, struck anew by his care for her. “I’ve just decided what I’ll name my son.”

  Tut leaned close. “I wondered if you’d wait until he was weaned or if you’d tempt the gods and name him before his three years.”

  “He is strong and a fighter—like his Jad Horemheb.” Anippe winked at her abbi. “Which is why his name will be Horemheb.”

  Abbi Horem’s eyes misted. He swiped a callused hand down his face and fairly jumped to his feet, clearing his throat. “If the name suits him. It’s a fine name, you know.”

  The siblings laughed at the elder’s awkwardness.

  “It is indeed a fine name, General,” Tut said with a grin.

  Anippe stood and took his hand. “Tell Ummi Amenia, when you see her in Gurob, that now she’ll have two Horemhebs to love.”

  Why should I fear when evil days come,

  when wicked deceivers surround me—

  those who trust in their wealth

  and boast of their great riches?…

  People, despite their wealth, do not endure;

  they are like the beasts that perish.

  —PSALM 49:5–6,12

  18

  Then the Lord said to [Abram], “Know for certain that for four hundred years your descendants will be strangers in a country not their own and that they will be enslaved and mistreated there.”

  —GENESIS 15:13

  THREE YEARS LATER

  Windstorms were common during harvest season, but that mo
rning’s storm had started early and pounded Avaris without reprieve. Puah had stuffed baskets and sackcloth in their single window to block the dust, and Amram and Mered tipped their table on its edge against the curtained doorway. Mered spent his morning chasing his two-year-old daughter, Ednah, while Amram took breakfast duty, supervising seven-year-old Aaron and four-year-old Jered. Puah ground grain for the day’s supply of bread, and all of them prayed the winds would be wild enough to postpone the day’s labor but gentle enough to avoid damage to crops and buildings.

  When the field foreman arrived, commanding little Aaron to the harvest, Amram and Mered knew they must go to their workshops as well. Amram walked quickly toward the mud-brick shelter of Avaris’s metal and gem shop on the south side of the villa. Mered’s linen workshop, with its thatched walls, let in gentle breezes in the hot late days of Shemut, but in these early days of harvest season, both workers and cloth would suffer.

  He trudged through the blowing dust and sand, a long strip of byssus linen around his head to protect him from the gust-driven debris. When he stepped across the shop’s threshold, he unwound the headpiece and gingerly shook out the dust and sand on the tiles at his feet. The normal rhythmic humming of workers was absent, and he heard only the angry fluttering of thatched walls all around frightened Hebrew slaves. They sat sullenly at their tasks, glancing over their shoulders at walls that felt woefully unstable against such heavy winds.

  “Why are these slaves working in this?” The amira stood at the doorway nearest the villa, seemingly unwilling to enter the wind-battered shop. “It isn’t safe … can’t expect …” Her words were muted by sudden increased gusts, and her expression changed to sheer terror. “Everyone into the villa. Now!” She beckoned them all to the door where she stood, then directed them down the path toward the garden. “Bring your supplies. You’ll work in the main hall today. Hurry!”

  After another strong gust, the hesitant slaves scooped up what their arms could carry and hurried past their amira toward the spacious interior of a villa they’d never entered.

  Mered grabbed a basket and threw several scrolls, his reeds and pigment, and a few of Anippe’s designs in it. Since the birth of little Mehy—the nickname she’d chosen for her little Horemheb—her designs had increased both in quantity and quality. Royalty in Egypt and abroad wore the amira’s designs on Avaris’s finest linen robes. The weavers had come to appreciate her artistry and actually preferred her designs to Mered’s.

  He noticed the weavers hadn’t budged. They remained standing at their vertical looms, lost in the rhythm of their craft.

  “You heard the amira. Into the main hall! I’ll lose my most skilled workers if this roof tumbles down on your heads.”

  “What about the looms?” one of them shouted over his shoulder, never ceasing his work. “We can’t carry them. They’re already strung and way too heavy.”

  The other nine weavers nodded in agreement. Each loom was as tall as a man and as wide as three. Avaris’s linen was only as good as the men and looms working in concert.

  Anippe appeared at Mered’s side. “Two of you stay. The other eight come to the main hall and meet with me about future designs.” She turned her attention to Mered. “When this windstorm passes, we’ll talk about getting real walls—or at least better supports—built for this workshop. If we’re going to make Egypt’s best linen, we must have Egypt’s best workshop.”

  The weavers decided among themselves which two would remain, and the others joined the mass exodus from the shop.

  Mered stood beside his amira, watching proudly. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Mered. You and your family have become quite dear to me. When Sebak comes home—” Her voice broke. She paused, cleared her throat, and lifted her chin. “When Master Sebak returns, I will have only good things to report of your work here.”

  She was trying so hard to be grown up and brave. Three years and no word from her husband. The war with the Hittites still raged, but they’d had no news from the Delta messenger for two years now. Even Anippe’s inquiries sent to King Tut himself had been left unanswered.

  “I’m sure he’ll return home soon, Amira. Surely the war won’t last much longer.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mered. If I didn’t have Mehy and Miriam, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  He thought it odd that she’d speak of her son and a slave girl with equal affection but didn’t want to seem coarse by asking. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the amira’s glistening eyes and knew more than a windstorm was raging.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you, Amira?”

  She chuckled, then dabbed her painted eyes with a neatly folded cloth. “No. I suppose you’ll think this is good news. I’m returning Jochebed to the craftsmen’s village tonight.”

  Mered clapped his hands, the sound muted by the wind. “I’m indeed happy about it. If Jochebed and Miriam are returning to the village, does that mean I can train Miriam for my linen shop?”

  “I said Jochebed is returning. Not Miriam.” Turning to meet his gaze, Anippe’s eyes grew hard, as if leveling a challenge. “Miriam will remain in the chamber adjoining mine as my handmaid. I allowed her mother to serve as a house slave while the girl was young, but Miriam has seen nine inundations. She’s old enough to serve on her own.”

  “Of course, Amira.” Mered bowed. “You’ve been more than gracious.”

  Anippe walked away without a backward glance, the storm outside dwarfed by the storm in her eyes.

  Anippe had known this day would come, and she’d dreaded it since she discovered Jochebed was the real ummi of Mehy—“Moses,” as they’d called him back then.

  She watched her precious boy play with his acacia-wood blocks in the sitting area at the end of a long day. Tapestries still hung between the courtyard pillars, keeping as much dust and sand out of the chamber as possible. The winds died with the setting sun. Hopefully they were over for the season so harvest could start in earnest.

  Miriam appeared from the shadows with a small flask of scented oil. “Would you like me to massage your face and head, Amira?” She’d been especially quiet this evening. No doubt missing Jochebed.

  “Yes. Please.”

  Anippe’s heart twisted as the girl removed her wig and helped her recline on the embroidered couch. Closing her eyes, Anippe’s mind began to spin. Could she have treated Jochebed better? Done more for the woman who’d given up her son so Anippe could be an ummi, an amira, a true wife to Sebak?

  Though children were usually weaned at three years, she’d allowed Jochebed to nourish him six extra months, and she’d even let her continue to call him Moses—when no one heard. To everyone else, her son was Mehy—a nickname he’d stumbled on while trying to say his given name, Horemheb.

  As Miriam massaged her temples, Anippe replayed their nightly routine in her mind. Miriam often did as she was doing now, but Jochebed held Mehy, twirling his black curls around her finger. Nursing him, singing a Hebrew lullaby, speaking of the Hebrew god. Now her son played alone.

  Where was Ankhe?

  Anippe fairly leapt off her couch, startling both Miriam and Mehy. Grabbing the striker, she banged the Hathor chime—again and again and again. Where was her lazy sister?

  Mehy began to cry, and Anippe swept him into her arms, pressing whispered comfort against his ear. “Shh, Ummi just wants Ankhe to come see you and play with you, habibi. You deserve to be treated like the prince of Egypt that you are.”

  She bounced and cuddled, coaxed and cajoled, while Miriam sat quietly on the couch, watching.

  Anippe lifted the single prince’s braid on her son’s head. As testimony of his weaning and part of the sacrifice to the Ramessid patron god, Seth, the priests had shaved his lovely black curls. He wore the braided princely sidelock, a sign of royalty, and proof of the success of Anippe’s well-played deception. But her beautiful boy would trade Ankhe’s indifference for Jochebed’s love any day.

  Her sister spent barely an h
our a day with her charge—and that at Anippe’s strict requirement. Why did I agree to let Ankhe tutor him? Her sister had become a stranger.

  Sequestered in her private chamber, Ankhe spent her days alone. Though only across the hallway, she refused to join Anippe at the bathhouse and sulked during the hour she was required to care for Mehy. When Jochebed and Miriam tried to engage her in conversation, she treated them worse than house slaves. It was as if Ankhe was drowning in hate, but Anippe couldn’t save her.

  “It’s done.” Ankhe stormed into the chamber and slammed the chamber door behind her. She walked past Anippe and Mehy without a glance, shoving Miriam aside and plopping onto the couch. “I ordered Nassor to escort Jochebed to the slave village.”

  “At least you didn’t make her walk alone in the dark.” Anippe was more concerned with Mehy’s neglect than Jochebed’s return home at the moment. She lowered herself and her son onto a cushion and reached for the goose-shaped bowl of kohl on the table beside them. Using the alabaster applicator, she placed three black circles on the pudgy back of Mehy’s hand. “This dot is Mehy. This one is Ummi. And this one is Re—the great sun god. We are always together—we three. Nothing can separate us.”

  He picked at the marks with his little finger, and then turned sparkling eyes on her. “Oohh.”

  Ankhe rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t understand what you’re saying. He hasn’t even celebrated four inundations yet.”

  “Mehy, tell Ankhe you’re a very smart boy, and you can learn.”

  “I wurn.” He threw his hands in the air, and Anippe tickled his ribs, showering his neck with kisses.

  Then, gathering his hand in her own, she reviewed. “Tell Ummi about these dots. Who is this one?”

  “Mehy.”

  “And this one?” Her bright little boy recited each dot correctly, and Anippe’s heart swelled. “Your tutor, Ankhe, will apply these three circles to your hand every day to remind you that Ummi Anippe and the great god Re will always be with you.” She pinned Ankhe with a glare. “Won’t you, Teacher Ankhe?”